Because I was Drunk
by RaphaelsLittleSister
Summary: A short fic for the Fourth of July. Prepare yourself for sorrow and other such things within. I wrote this at about ...well, to late to be good, so if it sucks...OH WELL. I love you Britain!
1. Because I was Drunk

**A/N: As much as it pains me to say this, I do not own Hetalia. I wish I did. Now, please note, this was not written as USUK, but can easily (proud USUK fan) be seen as it. Prepare to be sad. **

Because I was Drunk - Arthur Kirkland

It's the Fourth of July, and I'm drunk again. Just like last year. And the year before that. And so on. Deep down, I know I should put down the Scotch, and go home at the least. I know it's a good idea, but by now I'm at the point of not even being able to walk straight, I think, and besides, I don't really want to go outside while that wanker is shooting off all his stupid fireworks. Damn snub, I think he does it to piss me off.

There goes another glass, I can see my hand lifting it up, and by now the sharp ache in my chest is beginning to subside to the warm feel of the alcohol. Over on the other end of the counter, some pricks are drinking and cheering, and it makes me mad. I down another shot and push back my stool angrily. Do those bloody gits even realize that while they're over there having a grand old time, I feel like my heart's cracking in two? Of course not.

I put, or rather, slam some bill down on the counter, and storm out the bar. The air is hot and muggy, and it isn't helping the fact that I'm as wasted as all those years I spent on the git.

I should have remembered that the Fourth is the day that all these wankers are always driving drunk. I should have remembered to look before I walked. I shouldn't have mistaken the screech of rubber for the whistle of an explosive, and I most defiantly shouldn't have mistaken the lights from an oncoming car as one of those bloody firecrackers. Come to think of it, if I was smart, I wouldn't have been drunk.

But I was.

I stepped out onto the street, and the squeal of the tires, and the lights drowned out the firecracker overhead as countless explosions erupted in my body, momentarily blinding me. I hit the asphalt, a tangy iron in my mouth. A car door opened, closed, and someone ran towards me. Warm, strong arms scooped me up, my head lolling unnaturally to the side. "Britain! Britain! Oh God, Arthur, say something!"

My eyes stared past the boy I had raised, reflecting a shower of sparks in the sky. I didn't, couldn't, say a word, but as my final breath rattled quietly, I thought to myself, 'I hope you're happy, America.'

The last thing I ever heard was his scream tear apart my heart as the fireworks finished in the grand finale, lighting up the sky one last time.

And America cried.

All because I was drunk.

**A/N: No, I do not hate Britain. I can just, sadly, see this happening. I actually love him very much, and want his eyebrows. (Not on my face, but on my wall or something, 'cause they're just that epic. XD) . So, happy Fourth. I know it's late, but deal. Oh, and this may end up being a two-shot. We'll see. **


	2. What Kind of Hero

**A/N: Now, the folks that read 'Because I Was Drunk', some of you requested a second part. So, here it is. I'll have you know that while this is being posted as the second 'chapter', it also can be read as a stand-alone, because…it sucks. I fail at writing angst, so forgive me if it sucks.**

What kind of Hero? - Alfred F. Jones

'Britain, Britain, Britain…' I kept repeating his name in my head, like it was going to help him. But of course it couldn't. His intense green eyes stared blankly at the velvety sky, the fireworks reflected in their over-clear surfaces. But he couldn't see them. Not anymore. And my world was crashing and burning for it.

Tears slid down my face, and dripped off my skin. They landed in perfect circles on his still face before trickling down onto the pavement. I took my sleeve, and brokenly wiped the trail of blood away from his lips. Just like those tears, everything had been perfect before I ruined them. Perfect before I rebelled.

I looked into his emerald eyes for a moment, staring them down, and tried to be strong. Tried not to cry. Heroes don't cry.

But what kind of hero am I? What kind of hero runs down some poor, innocent drunk while they're crossing the street? And of all the innocent drunks… "Oh God, Arthur! Please no, please, God no!" I pulled Britain…no, Arthur close, and buried my tears in his chest. Inhaling deeply, he smelled the way I had always known him to. Almost. Tea and cologne saturated his not-so-limp body and would have been comforting, but…

A fresh wave of tears overwhelmed me, as I detected the Scotch that he must have spilt on himself. Why did he have to go and get drunk that night? Why was he _always drunk_?

But worst of all was that he already smelled cold. Like death.

The asphalt dug harshly into my knees, but I couldn't bring myself to notice as I buried my face into the spices, and freshener, and even the alcohol. Anything but admit the scent of his skin.

I don' t know how long we sat there, awash in the headlights of my car, pressing him to me, and wishing with all my heart that I could do something to save him. But he was gone, gone forever.

The fireworks had stopped, and when all of America had gone to sleep, it began to rain. The clouds rolled in, and the fat droplets began to wash all the filth from the road. Except me. It left me. I must have been too dirty, even for the rain. I don't blame it.

It rained, and rained, and I couldn't stop crying. I couldn't even tell what was grief and what was rain anymore. It rained so much, it was almost like being back under Britain, with his rainy, dull weather. And right then, god, I wished I was. I wish I was sitting up on the couch, waiting for him to come home. That the next morning, I could beg him to play soldiers with me. That he wouldn't leave again. I wish I was still able to crawl in bed with him after a nightmare, or hug him when he was sad. I wish that I could have just told him those two words, that night in the rain, all those years ago. I wish I could have told him how sorry I was. How sorry I _am_.

But I couldn't. I can't. Not anymore. No matter how loud I scream, or if I ran my voice ragged, he will never hear those two simple words. So I just sat there, holding my dear Britain close to me as the rain and thunder kept on coming.

When my tears finally stopped, my heart still felt like it had more to cry. I turned my face up, hoping that the sky could cry my tears for me, and saw the lightning dance through the clouds. And again. I didn't have the strength to smile, but I looked down into Arthur's face, and whispered, "Happy Independence Day."

But I knew he couldn't hear me. I knew he couldn't see me. Those eyes just kept staring upwards, his face was unmoving. I reached out a shaking hand, and slid his eyelids gently shut. I could never give him back his sight. So what kind of hero am I?

**A/N: Alfred Angst! **D=** Who knew it existed?**

**Sorry if he was a little OOC. As I said, angst is a fail for me. But I wanted to make it sad, and maybe a little UsUk-ish. **

**PS. You know how I said I wanted Iggy's eyebrows? I now have them! For all anyone knows, he could be wandering about in search for them as we speak! Muuuaaahahahaha!**


End file.
